Killing Trade Page 4

  “It is true,” Caqueta said reluctantly, staring at his feet, “that my enemies conspire against me and use El Cráneo to do this terrible thing.”

  “Meaning, they’re beating you,” Burnett interpreted.

  Caqueta looked up at him sharply. “No, they are not,” he said. “They have, however, successfully convinced the supplier of the bullets to sell the lion’s share to them, those sons of pigs.”

  “So you’re outgunned,” Burnett said.

  Caqueta shrugged. Behind him, Ruiz continued to glare. It was obvious he did not approve of the meeting.

  “What do you want, Caqueta?” Burnett asked bluntly. “You called and said you wanted to deal. Well, deal. What have you got that I want?” Bolan looked from the tall detective to Caqueta. The answer was obvious.

  “I can tell you how and where I purchased my supply of the bullets,” Caqueta said. “Of course, this is all hypothetical. I would admit to nothing. I know of no bullets, none at all, when it comes to…to the record, you see?”

  “I see,” Burnett said grimly. “We look the other way and you help us put the supplier away.”

  “More or less.” Caqueta nodded. “I can lead you to a certain fellow who brokered the sales with me and with Taveras, and he will lead you to your precious bullets.”

  “What assurances do we have that your information is legitimate?” Burnett asked.

  “I have little choice,” Caqueta said frankly. “To compete with El Cráneo my people must have weaponry to rival their own. Our supply—the supply we do not have, of course—of the ammunition is dwindling. Taveras has increased his own stockpiles. El Cráneo is planning something, something very big. It is the way they think, the way they operate. They plan to show me, to teach me—me!—a lesson. They will also show you and your people that you are powerless to stop them.”

  “Give me a name,” Burnett demanded.

  Ruiz turned to his boss. “Jefe, no! Give them that, and—”

  “Silence!” Caqueta roared.

  He turned back to Burnett. “The man’s name is West.”

  “Too late,” Burnett told him. “We’re ahead of you. West is dead.”

  “Is he, now?” Caqueta said, unimpressed. “Not much of a surprise. A man like that, a man meddling in so many different affairs of life and death. Such a man must have many enemies, no?”

  “You have nothing for me, then,” Burnett said.

  “Do not be so quick to dismiss me,” Caqueta said, his voice hard again. “Either your people are not as thorough as mine, or NLI is not as forthcoming with the law as it might be.”

  “What do you know about Norris Labs?” Bolan put in. Caqueta eyed the big soldier, his expression stern.

  “I know that this West quit some time ago, some months before my people made the first purchases of his very useful, very powerful bullets for our weapons. And I know that he quit after another man, a much more significant man, was fired. This fellow was a researcher, a developer of arms. It would seem, my sources tell me, that this man was full of great and useful ideas. He was unappreciated by his employers, and when he complained of as much, they deemed him too troublesome and sent him away. West was his assistant at NLI. It would seem he was loyal to the man, not the company. Or perhaps he was loyal only to money, and was offered more than his former employers would give. That is often the way, is it not?”

  “Why do you know all this?” Burnett asked.

  “Would you not look into the men on whom you staked the fate of your family, your business, your honor?” Caqueta shrugged. “West contacted us after the first sales were made to El Cráneo. He arranged for a demonstration. He asked that I send one of my bulletproof limousines—and a driver of whom I was not terribly fond. He found some piece of street trash, gave him a magazine full of bullets for his pistol. When my driver arrived at the meet, he was killed immediately. The bullets passed through the armored car and through a fire hydrant nearby.”

  “So you had no choice but to escalate the war,” Burnett said skeptically.

  “None,” Caqueta said. “West told me in no uncertain terms just how much ammunition my enemies had purchased. It was only a matter of time. We—hypothetically, of course—armed ourselves accordingly. But a few months later, he stopped answering our messages. El Cráneo grew bolder, more vicious. I lost more men even as I took down theirs. We are running out of the special bullets. El Cráneo had obviously cut a deal with West, offered him more than I could.”

  “They’re winning the war,” Burnett said.

  Caqueta shrugged again. “They do not have to. You can stop this. Things can be…shall we say, much more calm. More like they used to be.”

  “While you continue shipping your poison,” Burnett said.

  “I do not force it up anyone’s nose or into anyone’s veins,” Caqueta said. “I am interested in business, not war.”

  Burnett sighed. “Like you,” he said, “I don’t know what choice I have. Let’s get this straight, though. I’m not making any promises, Caqueta. If I could nail you to the wall, I would do it.”

  Caqueta laughed. “But of course you would, Detective Burnett. That is what makes you safe. You are predictable. As long as I am not stupid enough to give you evidence you can use against me in court, you are no threat to me. And as long as you have no such evidence, I am no threat to you.”

  “All right,” Burnett nodded. “We understand each other. Give me the name.”

  “The man you seek,” Caqueta said, “is—”

  Something caught Bolan’s attention. Reflexes honed over years of battle kicked in. Whether it was a simple shift in the wind, or some other subconscious cue, something was wrong.

  “Down!” Bolan yelled. He tackled Burnett, just as Luis Caqueta’s head exploded.

  They heard the gunshot as Caqueta’s nearly headless body fell forward onto the ground before the bench. There was a single, still moment in which Razor Ruiz, splattered with his boss’s blood, looked up with wide eyes. He glanced down at Caqueta’s body and to the ground behind the bench, where a tiny blade smoldered.

  “Treachery!” he shouted. From within his trench coat he brought up a pistol-gripped Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun.

  “Go!” Bolan told Burnett, drawing his Beretta.

  All hell broke loose.

  The unseen sniper cut loose with a rapid string of shots. Bolan spotted the gunman firing a scoped, match-barreled AR-15. He was on the roof of a nearby building. The Executioner pushed Burnett as the two men scrambled to the cover of a nearby tree. They threw themselves aside when several shots punched through the bark of the tree and into the asphalt path beyond. Burnett shouted a warning as they ran, the tree behind them catching fire from the inside out. Nearby civilians screamed and either dropped flat or ran. With no real way to counter the DU projectiles, Bolan and the detective could do only one thing. They fled.

  Razor Ruiz ran after them, firing his shotgun blindly in the direction of the shooter. It was enough to foul the sniper’s aim until the Caqueta Cartel man and his quarry were out of the sniper’s line of sight.

  Burnett was on his phone as they moved, calling in backup. It was unlikely they’d arrive in time to take down the sniper. The shooter would undoubtedly be extracting by now. Still, Burnett had to try. When he was sure they were safely out of the gunner’s killzone, Bolan put a hand on Burnett’s shoulder and gestured to a recently tilled-over flower garden near the asphalt path. It had two-foot brick walls surrounding it. Bolan and Burnett crouched behind the bricks and waited.

  “We need him alive, if we can get him,” Bolan told the detective.

  “No problem,” Burnett said. “He’s a law-abiding citizen. I’ll just arrest him.”

  In a moment, Ruiz came running down the path, still carrying the shotgun.

  “Ruiz!” Burnett shouted. “Stop right there!”

  Ruiz yelled something incoherent, jacked a shell into his shotgun’s chamber and punched a 12-gauge slug into the brick near Burnett’s
face. The cop jerked his head back, his fingers clawing at his eyes, screaming.

  Bolan rolled away and surged to his feet, coming around the low wall and diving at Ruiz. He tackled the gaunt man and took him down roughly. The two rolled into the muddy grass near the path.

  Ruiz was stronger than he looked. The two men grappled furiously, Ruiz screaming curses in Spanish the entire time. The cartel thug managed to get on top of Bolan as the soldier put his legs up in guard. Bolan did not want to shoot Ruiz, but the thug spotted the holstered weapon in his adversary’s waistband and grabbed for it.

  Slapping his right hand deep onto the tang of the Beretta in its holster, Bolan caught Ruiz’s hand and forearm in the crook of his own arm. He tightened his arm, trapping Ruiz before the wiry man could pull the weapon free. Shoving with all his might, Bolan got his knees up in front of Ruiz, levering the man up. Then he fired a savage kick into his stomach. The cartel man rolled off Bolan, gagging and retching.

  Bolan scrambled to his feet and he kicked Ruiz hard in the head. The man dropped to his belly on the ground and was still.

  The Executioner drew his Beretta, glancing left and right—

  And found himself staring into the barrel of a Glock.

  Burnett was silent. Bolan glanced in the detective’s direction and found him prone near the flower garden, unmoving.

  “Move an inch in my direction and I’ll shoot you in the head,” the man with the Glock told him. He had Bolan covered from behind. From what he could see, looking over his shoulder, the Executioner couldn’t identify the newcomer.

  “Who are you?” Bolan asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “Place the gun on the ground very slowly.” He was just under six feet tall, solidly built, wearing cargo pants and a denim shirt under a tan photographer’s vest. Bolan noted his footwear, which weren’t work boots at all, but tan combat boots with tanker straps. On his face the man wore wraparound smoked shooting glasses. His prematurely gray hair was cropped close to his skull in military fashion.

  Bolan glanced to Burnett again as he placed the Beretta carefully on the walking trail. There was no one close by; it was unlikely anyone would see what was happening and call for help. The gunman gestured Bolan back and then picked up the Beretta, his Glock never wavering. He tucked the Beretta into his waistband behind his back.

  “He’ll live,” the man told him, jerking his head at Burnett. “Answer my questions and you might, too.”

  Bolan just looked at him.

  “I want your name and the agency you’re working for,” the man said. He stood carefully out of Bolan’s reach.

  “You seem to have misplaced your rifle,” Bolan said. He didn’t know for a fact that this man was the sniper, but the look on the gunman’s face told him he’d guessed correctly.

  “This weapon,” he said, his eyes flickering to the Glock, “will punch through a dozen of you single-file. The caliber’s different, but the ammo’s the same. Now, answer my question.”

  Bolan eyed him hard. He was considering the lunge needed to reach the man when Razor Ruiz suddenly pushed up and attacked, screaming, a knife blade flashing in his fist.

  The Glock went off. The gunman yelled in pain as Ruiz slashed deeply into the wrist of his gun hand, kicked him low in the shin and followed him down with the blade, stabbing again and again with sewing-machine strokes.

  Bolan grabbed Ruiz by the head and peeled him off, twisting and hurling him sideways. Ruiz shook it off and wheeled on the soldier, his bloody knife held before him.

  “Now, you bastard,” Ruiz hissed, “now I carve off a piece of you!”

  Bolan drew his SOG Pentagon knife left-handed. Ruiz narrowed his eyes as he took in the double serrated blade. The soldier crouched low, the knife reversed in his hand. “You don’t have to do this,” he told Ruiz. “That man—” he nodded to the fallen gunman “—is the shooter who killed your boss.”

  “I know!” Ruiz spit. “And I have taken revenge for him!”

  “You have,” Bolan said evenly. “You’ve even done me a favor.”

  “And now,” Ruiz said, advancing with his blade before him, “I shall kill you and then the policeman, for luring us into this ambush.”

  “I don’t know how they knew to take out Caqueta,” Bolan said, slowly circling as Ruiz rounded on him, “or who they were protecting to do it. You can help.”

  “Help?” Ruiz laughed. In the distance, the first sirens wailed. “Why would I help you?”

  “Your boss was going to help us find the source of the DU rounds,” Bolan told him. “He knew it was in his best interests.”

  “He was wrong!” Ruiz lunged with the knife. Bolan sidestepped and slashed, scoring Ruiz lightly on the arm. The cartel killer snarled and backed off a couple of paces. “He never should have trusted the police. You see where it got him!”

  Bolan could see the first uniformed officers closing on them through the park. He was running out of time. Ruiz glanced back and then to Bolan again. “They will take me,” he said, “but not before I take you!”

  When the thrust came, Bolan was ready. He slapped Ruiz’s wrist with his right hand while drawing the Pentagon’s blade over the top of the man’s forearm, slicing deeply through the arm. Ruiz howled as Bolan followed up, slapping and trapping to the outside, moving to his opponent’s right outside his weapon. With a stomp he broke the killer’s ankle under the heel of his combat boot. Ruiz folded, wailing.

  “Don’t move! Drop the knife!” The uniformed officers were closing in, guns drawn.

  For the second time in as many days, Bolan slowly raised his hands and did as he was instructed.

  5

  Mack Bolan sat on the bed in his hotel room, lacing up his combat boots. He wore his combat blacksuit, which to the casual observer would look like a black mock turtleneck and black pants tucked into his boots. The slit pockets of the blacksuit bore some of his gear, leaving room for much more. On the floor before him was a large shipping crate, delivered by special courier from Stony Man Farm early that morning. The Executioner was in the process of unpacking the crate when his secure phone vibrated.

  “Striker,” he said.

  “Good morning, big guy,” Barbara Price said brightly. “I take it you got Cowboy’s special delivery?”

  “Unwrapping it now,” Bolan told her. “Did Bear and his crew have any luck with the photos I sent?”

  “Transmitting now,” Price confirmed. “The shooter in West’s apartment was Basil Price, forty-eight. British, with a sheet that goes back a ways. A veteran merc with two years in Rhodesia, SAS, to his credit.”

  “Just the sort of person a private security firm might employ?” Bolan said.

  “Possibly,” Price said. We’ve queried NLI and their contractor, Blackjack Group. If they’ve got anything in their files, it’s squirreled away where Bear can’t crack it. Officially, Blackjack never heard of the man.”

  “Not surprising,” Bolan said.

  “It gets more interesting,” Price said. “Your other body is John Paul Reynolds, thirty-six. Gulf War veteran, Marines, with some contract security work after that.”

  “And?”

  “The work was with Blackjack Group,” Price told him, “and it was while he was in Blackjack’s employ that he died on the job, supposedly, a year ago in Baghdad.”

  “So he’s been off the books for a year, playing dead, most likely doing black ops for Blackjack.”

  “Seems so,” Price said.

  “Then NLI is involved up to its board members’ necks,” Bolan concluded. “They’re actively trying to sever links leading back to them, using Blackjack as muscle.”

  “Striker, if they took out West and sent someone else to destroy his records, then somehow keyed into your meet with Caqueta, they’ve got the city wired or they’ve got someone inside, maybe both.”

  “The thought occurred to me,” Bolan said grimly. “Any luck with the hard drive I got from West’s apartment?”

&nb
sp; “Not much yet,” Price said. “Bear has Akira working on it, but he says it’s in pretty sorry shape.”

  “Have him keep at it,” Bolan said. “It’s the only lead I’ve got after Ruiz, who isn’t going to talk on his own. Listen, Barb, I need you to contact Hal for me and let him know it’s going to get heavier. I’ll need him to run interference for me so I can do this my way. I’m done playing it subtle. I’ve got to put a stop to this. It’s going to get a lot bloodier before it gets better.”

  “I’ll tell him. And, Striker?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your back.”

  “I will.” He closed the connection.

  From the closet where he’d left his windbreaker the previous evening, Bolan took his long, charcoal-colored canvas duster. The lightweight overcoat was perfect for the autumn temperatures, so he wouldn’t be too conspicuous. More importantly, the long coat would hide a multitude of sins, as the saying went. Draping the coat over the hotel-room chair, he turned back to the crate Stony Man’s couriers had dropped off.

  The Farm’s armorer had outdone himself. Cowboy Kissinger had sent Bolan’s usual equipment with a few added bonuses. Bolan first removed the big Desert Eagle .44 Magnum pistol from the box. Kissinger had sent a tactical thigh holster, which Bolan strapped to his right leg. It bore pouches for several spare magazines. He loaded them from the boxes provided and tucked it into place.

  In addition to his Beretta 92-F Bolan now had his familiar Beretta 93-R machine pistol. Kissinger had included a custom leather pistol rig that would accommodate the 93-R with its attached suppressor vertically under his left arm. The 92-F he placed inside his waistband in its holster, which he repositioned for a reverse left-hand draw behind his left hip. He moved the SOG Pentagon knife closer to the midpoint of his back, where the knife could be drawn with either hand. He also distributed several loaded magazines for the Berettas in the pockets of his blacksuit. Finally, he clipped the SureFire tactical light in place in a left-hand pocket and clipped the Cold Steel Gunsite Folding Knife to the right. The sturdy, chisel-ground, Tanto blade combat folder had been sent at Bolan’s specific request.